Bull Pup's Papers
by Faithful Bozwell
Summary: UPDATED: PART 2 OF CHAPTER 6 IS NOW UP! My version of the events leading up to and beyond the meeting of Dr. John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.  From the Criterion to Stamford to 221B Baker Street, and what happened after. NON-SLASH!
1. Chapter 1

Greetings, Dear Readers!

Inspired by my visit to the Criterion one year ago today, I present an updated version of my first short Watsonfic, **_One Afternoon In Piccadilly - _**now the first chapter in a series entitled, _**BULL PUP'S PAPERS.**_

**Watson:** *cringes*

**Me:** *pats his hand* No worries, Doc. I'll go easy on you. *crosses her fingers behind her back* And if you hadn't insisted on putting this story into my head while I was dining at the Criterion, we wouldn't be here, now would we?

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_**BULL PUP'S PAPERS**_

Ever since _A Study In Scarlet_ was published back in '87, I have been told that I described our first encounters with far too much brevity. Thus, at long last, I take up my pen and endeavor to record the true circumstances of my introduction to the man who was to become known as the World's Only Unofficial Consulting Detective, and my dearest friend.

Dr. John H. Watson, M. D.

_Late of the Army Medical Department, _

_December, 1922._

**~ Chapter 1 ~**

_**ONE AFTERNOON IN PICCADILLY.**_

LONDON.

NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1881.

"Oi! Watch where the bloody hell you're goin'!"

The bicyclist who hollered out curses as I stumbled across Piccadilly didn't phase me in the least. My head felt like a clock factory at noon; even the slight pressure from my bowler was like an anvil. I could barely see. The only cure was a bit of the hair of the dog. And The Criterion was the place to find it. At least 11 shillings and 6 pence daily was good for something. That's about all it was good for.

The glittering crust of golden tiles above my head did little to cheer me. Would that I had some of that kind of wealth. Then maybe I could escape this comfortable yet meaningless existence which I had been living for the past nine months. I removed my bowler, made my way to the long bar, and leaned my right arm on it. The cold weather was playing hell with my leg. Even with the cane, it was still painfully stiff. A strong hand on my bad shoulder snapped me to my senses, and I reached for my cane.

"Happy New Year, Johnny!"

It was Jack, a regular whose purse would no doubt outlast his liver. I swore and lowered my cane. Normally he was great entertainment; the kind of fellow who was more social when drunk. But today I was in no mood. He looked at me, though I wasn't sure which one of me he was looking at.

"Aw, what's the matter, sonny?"

"Not now Jack."

He put his arm around me. "Aw, poor puppy. You want to take a tip from me - a raw egg in sherry, that'll set you right. Didn't teach you that in medical school did they? Hey, you alright, Boy?"

His breath was like a hot mince pie. I swallowed hard at that and smiled somewhat.

"Fine, Jack."

"Or maybe it wasn't just the booze, eh? I say, she must've given you a right going over. She were too much for the old soldier, eh, sonny?" He laughed and clapped me hard on the back.

I turned and rested my head in my hands. "Bog off, Jack."

"Aw, come on, Johnny."

"I. Said. Go. Away."

And mercifully he did so. I gently lowered my head to the bar, desperately trying to will away the image of whipped eggs. Then I felt a hand touch my wrist. From the direction of the fingers, I knew it was the bartender.

"Well, what do you know? It has a pulse. That's a good thing; no corpses allowed at the bar."

I chose not to dignify that with a response.

"For a moment there I thought old Jack was going to have the imminent pleasure of meeting the famed bull pup. Come on, Watson, up you come. There's a good lad." I heard the all too familiar clink of a heavy beer glass set down very close to my head. My only reply was a muffled, monotone "Ow".

"Sorry, Mate. Bad one, huh?"

"You could say that, Bill," I said in a muffled voice, my face still on the bar.

"You alright, John?" I heard Bill inquire.

I gulped down a big sip and rested my forehead back on the bar. "Yeah."

He exhaled rather loudly through his nose. "That wasn't very convincing, John."

"Well I'm afraid it's the best I can do at the moment," I stood up slowly and took another sip.

"Has the muse hit you lately? Any writing? You've said that you like to do that sort of thing."

"No," I said.

"Ever think of working for one of the papers? At least it would be a job."

"What, me? Ah, yes, I can see it now. Bull Pup's Papers. Give old Pickwick a run for his money. Except I can't run. I can't do anything. Orders of Her Majesty's Royal Army. I must rest. And stagnate." I said that last sentence as I slammed my glass down upon the bar. The scream that resonated up my arm told me just how hard I had been clutching the handle.

Bill put down the glass he'd been wiping and leaned in closer. "John, I know this chap who writes for the _Strand_. He might be able to help you. Nice fellow. I think I've got his card here somewhere." He began rummaging around near the till.

I took another swig. "Not interested."

"Oh come on. He writes historical things, the kind you like. Might be worth contacting. Yes, here it is, Mr. Doyle. Here you go, John."

I shoved the card into my pocket. "Fine, if it will get you off my bloody back, I'll think about it."

"Good." he said with a smile, and walked away to serve another customer.

Setting down the empty beer glass, I contemplated having another. Suddenly someone tapped my shoulder. It was swiftly accompanied by a voice I never expected to hear in a thousand years.

"Dr. Watson!"

I turned around, hangover forgotten, and smiled from ear to ear.

"Stamford!"

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Note: I originally submitted this piece on 27 July, 2010 - the 130th anniversary of the Battle of Maiwand - 27 July, 1880.

**Watson: **Why thank you, my dear.

**Me:** My pleasure, Doctor.

**Holmes:** Ahem, when do _I_ appear?

**Me:** *rolls eyes* Patience, my dear Holmes, patience.

**Holmes:** Hmph.

**Watson/Me:** *snicker*


	2. Chapter 2

Greetings, Dear Readers!

As promised, here is the next installment of a series which is now entitled, **_Bull Pup's Papers_**. There are nods to the Holmes Canon throughout, most notably in the italicized text, taken directly from **_A Study in Scarlet. _**There are also homages to the Granada Television series, but while you're reading this feel free to envision whichever Holmes and Watson you prefer.

And lest I forget, special thanks to all those who gave me feedback for **_One Afternoon in Piccadilly_**. **;-)**

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**

**~ Chapter 2 ~**

_**TO LIVE AGAIN**_

"_By Jove!" I cried, if he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him, I should prefer having a partner to being alone."_

"_You do not know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said; "perhaps you would not care for him as a constant companion."_

"_Why, what is there against him?"_

"_Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a little queer in his ideas - an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I know he is a decent fellow enough."_

Stamford had warned me, it is true. But my alarming lack of funds had won out. There were no two ways about it, this was an offer that I had to take. And, truth be told, I was finally growing tired of having no one to talk to. I wanted to live again.

Upon returning to my hotel room in The Strand, I lit a lamp and looked around. For seemingly the first time, I saw the deplorable mess which my life had become. Bed unmade, newspapers and racing forms strewn everywhere. I saw the boxes of books that lay unopened. I hadn't even looked at them. My bed was unmade. Had I really been living like this? Shocking for an Army man! My few clothes were hanging limp in the large wardrobe in the corner of the room. They didn't belong there. I didn't belong there. And I was running out of money. How had I gotten myself into this god-forsaken mess?

Removing my hat, the familiar twinges in my left shoulder and leg reminded me that I was not the man I once was. But what had I become? A wounded soldier, a doctor without a practice, a man with no family; my friends all blown to bits or hacked to pieces before my very eyes. When I had returned to England all I had wanted to do was escape. I wanted time to myself to rest. To forget. But I could still smell their blood. Every night they came to me. I dreamt of them all over and over again - dying in my arms or just out of reach. I would wake just as I had on the previous night, bathed in sweat, trembling, and alone with their voices still ringing in my ears. They always called for my help. And I could not save them.

Help. Heal. Save. Cure. Comfort. Those were the things I was best at. I was a Doctor, but could not even heal or comfort myself. I had first been trained to heal people. Then to kill them. Now I could do neither. I couldn't do anything. I had slept for days in that room, wrestling with the fact that I had survived when so many had not. Why me? What good was I to anyone now? What good was a retired army doctor who was forbidden to practice medicine for the next nine months in order to recover his irrecoverably ruined health? How would I make a living? I was useless, and I knew it.

But the stubborn Scot in me refused to give up the fight. I vowed then and there to never let my life sink to such a shambles again. No, I had best get to bed, and make tomorrow a fresh start. I would need my strength if I was to be moving soon. Reaching instinctively to my waistcoat pocket to retrieve James's - my - pocket watch, an image of my brother lying dead of drink penetrated my vision. I closed my eyes, trying to will it away, and whispered into thin air:

"That will not happen to me, Father. I promise."

I walked over to the nightstand and set my watch down. It was then I glanced sight of the little notebook that I had bought a few weeks ago. It still lay on the nightstand exactly as I had placed it, unopened and unused. The words just would not come. Wearily, I sat down on the bed and thought about tomorrow.

"_I think we may consider the thing as settled - that is, if the rooms are agreeable to you."_

"_When shall we see them?"_

"_Call for me here at noon, to-morrow, and we'll go together and settle everything." _

"_All right - noon exactly," said I shaking his hand._

Little did I know as I got into bed and blew out the lamp that the next day my life was about to change forever. Only this time, it would be for the better.

The next day, I had some difficulty in hailing a cab at first. But a short while later, thankful that I had enough left from my most recent victory at the races to pay for the cab ride, I beheld Mr. Holmes waiting for me under the arch at St. Bart's. He was dressed impeccably: black and grey striped waistcoat and trousers, white shirt, black tie, black frock coat, black shoes, and a black top hat. His appearance was completed by a handsome cane with a curved silver handle. He looks like a penguin, I mused. He was holding his watch in his black gloved hand, his face set in an air of disgust. Nevertheless, I decided to greet him with a cheery smile. After all, if we were going to be living under the same roof, better put my best foot forward.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," said I, extending my hand to him. He shook my hand just as he had the previous day. His grip held a strength for which I would hardly have given him credit, considering his lithe form.

"Good morning, Doctor. Though you are one minute late," he said, pointing at his pocket watch.

"Am I?" I said, shocked as I looked at my own. "Oh, I am sorry. I had some difficulty in getting a cab and-"

"We are now two minutes late. Shall we?" I followed him into the cab.

"Now then, Sirs," said the driver, "Where to?"

I opened my mouth to reply, and it was in that instant that I realized that I had absolutely no idea where we were going. I looked at Holmes, who smiled and responded to the driver:

"_No. 221B, Baker Street,_ please."

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Yes, I know, this one is dreadfully short. But it will be worth it, so please stay tuned...and please (pretty please!) send me a review!

~Faithful Bozwell.


	3. Chapter 3

**A thousand apologies for the delay, but life sometimes gets in the way of what we'd rather be doing. **

**Nevertheless, here is the next installment! Enjoy!**

**

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****~ Chapter 3 ~**

**_221B_**

I could not help but remember my conversation with Stamford from yesterday while the cab sped along. True, from the little that I had already observed, this man was decidedly odd. But I also could see that his oddities were accompanied by great intellect. Genius, perhaps? Most assuredly yes. I would be lying, however, if I did not admit that I already harbored some misgivings about sharing rooms with such a peculiar fellow. Would he think me stupid? Worse than that, would he think me useless?

Stepping out of the cab as steadily as I could (though my limp was still frighteningly pronounced - thank Heaven I had my cane), I watched Mr. Holmes pay the cabman and we approached the door of 221 b. Baker Street. Mr. Holmes rang the bell. The door opened revealing an older woman, though by no means deficient in her faculties. She looked every inch a comely matron of the highest quality and I instantly liked her. The lady was of medium height and the bun of graying hair on her head still showed signs that it had once been a deep, brilliant shade of red.

"Mr. Holmes, good afternoon," she said, noticing that he was not alone. "Do come in, Gentlemen."

She led us into the front hall. It was absolutely pristine; I feel certain that I could have eaten breakfast off of the floor.

"I take it that you have found someone to go halves with, Mr. Holmes?" said Mrs. Hudson.

"Correct, Mrs. Hudson," said Mr. Holmes, nodding in my direction. "Allow me to introduce a new acquaintance of mine, Dr. John Watson."

I smiled, removed my brown bowler and extended my hand to her. "How do you do, Mrs. Hudson? Dr. John Watson, at your service."

She shook my hand and smiled back at me, "Very well Doctor Watson, thank you. Forgive me for asking, but my late husband and I once knew a lady by the name of Abby Watson, from Glen Cough. Would she by any chance be a relation of yours?"

"No, I'm afraid not. But I was born near Aberdeen."*

Her face positively beamed at my words, "Ah, a fellow Scot! You are indeed welcome, Sir!"

I chuckled at that; I couldn't help it. Mr. Holmes cleared his throat.

"Mrs. Hudson, we are here so that Doctor Watson may see the rooms. If you would be so kind?"

"Of course. This way, Gentlemen."

After hanging up our hats and coats (the house was deliciously warm) we followed Mrs. Hudson through the front hall and up the stairs, myself going last so not to draw attention to my limp (I had kept my cane with me). If the first floor landing was any indication, the house was in perfect order, something which appealed greatly to my military training.

The first room she showed us into was a modest yet cozy sitting room. The sunlight shining in from the three large windows on the wall opposite the door gave the room a most inviting atmosphere. The furniture was sparse, but lovingly cared for. My eyes were instantly drawn to the very handsome secretary desk in the corner to the right of the fire. I could just imagine it filled with my books, myself sitting there writing. I hadn't written in so long. The desk was close to the window which made the light perfect for it. There was a small coal hearth along the wall to the far left with two chairs and a sofa close by. Another door beyond that lead to a smaller room which paralleled the outer hall. Mr. Holmes saw that I was looking at it, and spoke up.

"If you wouldn't mind, Doctor, I should like to take that smaller chamber for my own bedroom. After all it is the closest to my consulting room."

"Consulting room?" I asked.

"Yes. This sitting room shall serve as my consulting room."

I must admit I was taken back a bit at that. But the strain of my finances bade me hold my tongue.

"I see. And where, pray, is my room?"

Mrs. Hudson answered me, "Doctor, there are several other rooms above. You may select any one that you wish."

I was not relishing the thought of trudging up another flight of stairs. But it was good exercise and that was the only way that I would regain and retain any strength that the ravages of war and disease had taken from me. And it would probably be best that my bedroom would be isolated from them. Blast those damnable nightmares. Will they ever stop?

Smiling as genuinely as I could, I answered, "In that case, lead the way, Mrs. Hudson."

We left Mr. Holmes in the sitting room, and took to the stairs. Of course, I had to trip on the last bloody step. It sent a flash of searing hot pain up my leg, and I hissed under my breath. But Mrs. Hudson heard me and turned around.

"Doctor Watson, are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," I said, trying as best I could not to say it through clenched teeth.

"But you are limping, Sir!" She was instantly at my side, and laced her left arm through my right. "Good heavens, would you care to sit down a moment?" she said, motioning to a nearby chair in the hallway.

"No, that's quite alright. I - I just tripped. Silly of me!" I laughed, though not convincingly enough, I am afraid. Then Mr. Holmes' words from yesterday flooded back into my mind:

"_You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."_

She looked at me with such genuine and heartfelt concern that somehow I didn't mind the thought of telling her the truth. The pain of my experiences in the war was a wound that was too still open to talk of much, but she deserved an explanation. So, I decided that one word would have to suffice.

"Afghanistan." I said quietly, nearly a whisper.

I watched her face grow a little pale and felt her grip tighten on my arm. Then it seemed to register in her expression that perhaps she had embarrassed me, but her grip did not lessen.

"Forgive me, Doctor. I should not have made such a fuss."

"Not at all, Ma'am. If I am to live here, you were going to find out sooner or later anyway." This woman had shown me more matronly attention in the last five minutes than I had received in many years. She cared. Somebody cared.

So we stood there for a moment, Mrs. Hudson holding onto my arm. Then she released it and gestured down the hall. "Well, if you would care to look I would suggest that room, as it is above the sitting room and will be the warmest in the winter months." She opened the door and bade me step inside. It was a fine room; the perfect size for my meager worldly possessions. There was a bed, a nightstand, a wash basin and wardrobe already there, and all in perfect condition.

"It's perfect, Mrs. Hudson!" I exclaimed.

"I am glad to hear it, Sir. Can you manage the terms - oh, Mr. Holmes did tell you-"

"Yes he did and yes I can."

She held out her hand to me and said with a warm smile,

"Well then, Doctor Watson, welcome home."

Unable to resist, I took her hand and kissed it.

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Hudson."

She giggled and curtsied like a schoolgirl.

"My, but you are a charmer, aren't you, Doctor!"

I laughed out loud at that remark. I admit that I also blushed. But I hadn't felt so welcome and happy anywhere for so long, and now to know that I had found a haven made me feel something like my old self again.

We found Mr. Holmes sitting on the ledge of a window in the sitting room, gazing down into the busy street. Without turning, he began to speak, "Well, Doctor. Your verdict?"

I grinned, "I accept."

"Excellent!" said Holmes, whirling around toward us with the greatest enthusiasm, "In that case, all that remains is to affix our names to the agreement, which, I believe, Mrs. Hudson, is in your apron pocket. Doctor, have you a pen?"

Amazed, she instantly produced said document from said pocket, and I my pen. We signed and shook hands.

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**I promise it won't be so long a wait for the next installment. Thank you for sticking with me! And as always, I thank those of you who have given me feedback. Please continue! **

**~Faithful Bozwell.**

***There are countless ideas as to where Watson was really born. I subscribe to his ancestry being Scottish, and took literary license here. And Abby Watson is a creation of my own overactive little brain. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Greetings, Dear Readers!**

**Well, so much for bringing you the next chapter soon. But, as they say, better late than never. ****And so, as promised, the story continues...**

**Watson: "It wasn't easy, believe you me, my dear. Good thing I am a believer in miracles." *winks impishly***

**Me: *giggles***

**Holmes: *test tube nearly drops, whirls around* "Watson, what have I told you about that pawky humor?"**

**Watson: "Sorry, old man. But I was merely stating facts, of which you are so fond."**

**Holmes: *blinks* "True. Continue, dear fellow." *goes back to chemistry set***

**Me: "Doctor, these are, to borrow your words, 'deep waters' indeed."**

**Watson: "You don't know the half of it, my dear. Now, where was I? Ah yes. The contract had been signed, and now we had to learn to tolerate one another. This is what happened next..."****

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****~ Chapter 4 ~**

_**HOME**_

Later that very afternoon, I arrived with my things. Mr. Holmes was very obliging in helping me with a few of the heavier boxes. It wounded my pride somewhat to have to accept his offer of help, but something that Stamford had said rang out in my head.

_"…he's a decent enough fellow..."_

Perhaps Stamford was more correct that he thought. Only time would tell.

Holmes was arranging bottles on the table and shelves nearest his bedroom. They looked to be chemicals of various kinds, like the ones I had seen him working with the day before.

"You have a keen interest in science?" I asked.

He looked at me with an air of disdain. "Interest? Why I am an expert, Doctor. It is a subject most particular to my line of work."

"And that is?"

"I am a consulting detective," he said as his head disappeared inside a large box.

"I beg your pardon?"

His head reappeared, "Or rather I am the worlds only unofficial consulting detective."

"Oh, you mean investigating crimes and the like? Is that the sort of thing?"

"Precisely, Doctor."

"Well then, why not join Scotland Yard? Why go at it all alone? Surely they would happily welcome someone with your obvious enthusiasm and -"

"Scotland Yard?" he snorted, so help me God, he actually snorted, "Miserable bunglers! What do they know of analysis and deduction?"

"Deduction?"

"Yes, deduction."

"I am afraid I don't quite follow -"

Holmes stood up quickly, "Deduction! The basis for true detective work. How many people go through their entire existence seeing, but never observing? Ha! Therein lies the secret, Doctor Watson - the secret of the singular powers of my mind…"

His words drew me in like a sorcerer. He was undoubtedly the most unique man I had ever met.

"This is fascinating, Mr. Holmes," I said.

He paused, mid-rant, and looked at me.

"Do you really think so?" The expression of surprise on his face was something I will remember until my dying day.

I smiled, "Absolutely. Tell me, have you put these powers to use?"

"I have. But I wish to make it my living. It is my peculiar business, you might say."

"Indeed? Do go on, Mr. Holmes."

The unpacking could wait. But just then Mrs. Hudson appeared and brought with her a light supper of stew and fresh bread. I tucked right in to my plate, while Holmes barely touched his.

"This is excellent!" I exclaimed. "Are you not hungry?"

"No. I don't often eat much. I never have."

"Not very healthy, you know."

"I do not restrain the source of my sustenance to mere food, Doctor."

"Oh, I'm the exact opposite, I am afraid. Even as a boy, I hated to miss a meal. And of course in the Army - well, after all, the army marches on its stomach."

His face elongated into an expression of disdain, "A lovely image, indeed."

Though I found his humor odd at best, I realized that he meant no harm. I spent the rest of the evening enraptured by the theories he shared. To my mind, they were so utterly brilliant I doubted I could do justice to them on paper. But what struck me the most was the fact that it seemed as if he had never shared this with anyone else, as if he feared humiliation of some kind. Pity, he really was a good and powerful speaker.

But why was he telling me? It couldn't be simply because I had asked him to. While he clearly was a man who lived a solitary existence, it was plain that he saw me simply as the means to and end. In other words, to help pay the rent. After all, what was I compared to him? Holmes, with his entrepreneurial spirit would no doubt make good in the world. But what in God's name was going to become of me?

Still, I kept my misgivings to myself that evening. Later we sat by the fire, partaking of the brandy Mrs. Hudson had provided us in honor of our having moved in officially.

"Well, Doctor, what shall we drink to?" said he, handing me a glass.

I pondered for a moment. Then simply said, "Home."

As the hour grew late, I bid my new flat mate a good evening, and climbed the steps to my new bedroom. Mrs. Hudson was correct, the warmth from one floor below had made its way up and the room was pleasant. Settling in under the covers, I found that as tired as I was, sleep would not come. My new flat mate fascinated me. A genius and not the most social of indivuduals, but not completely devoid of social graces. Yes, a peculiar fellow to be sure. But, as Stamford had said, he seems decent enough.

It was then that those feelings of dread crept back into my mind. A fellow such as Mr. Holmes was clearly adept to living by his wits. But what chance did I have at attempting such an existence? What was I good for now? Nothing, as far as I could see. No doubt he would soon tire of me.

That night, in my new home, in a new bed, the same dreams still came. The same nightmares. The same tortured cries. Several times I woke covered in sweat, certain that I had probably screamed in my sleep. Each time I sat still for many moments, listening for any sign that they had heard me, but thankfully with no response. Eventually I would lie back down again. I began to wonder if perhaps being here would be good for me. Perhaps, in time, I would recover and find my way again? Could I really start over here? Oh, God, let it be so.

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**That's all for now. More to come soon!**

**And like all of the italicized quotations throughout this story, there is one in this chapter which is also from _A Study In Scarlet. _**

**As always, my continuing thanks to all who are following the story and for leaving comments. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Greetings, Dear Readers.**

**Thought I'd forgotten, didn't you? ****Ha! Never! **

**Here is the next installment of this ongoing story. Happy Reading!**

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**~ Chapter 5 ~**

_**A NEW DAWNING.**_

The luscious smells of breakfast wafting up from the kitchen woke me. I couldn't recall a more pleasant aroma since I was a child, waking to my mother's cooking. I dressed quickly and eagerly made my way down to the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson was already there, having just started the fire.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson."

"Good morning, Doctor Watson. I trust you slept well?"

"Yes, very well, thank you," I cursed myself inwardly for lying to this lovely woman. But I didn't want to worry her.

"Well then, if you'll excuse me, breakfast will be up directly," she gestured over to the table, the places already set. "Do help yourself to coffee."

I sat down and poured a steaming cup. She returned shortly with a large tray containing a toast rack, butter dish, and a covered chafing dish. I rose to help her, but she shushed me back into my seat. "Why, just look at you. Poor dear, your clothes are practically hanging off of you!" she said playfully, tugging at the sleeve of my jacket. "A strapping, bonny laddie like you needs good meals in him. We'll just have to fatten you up."

Mrs. Hudson grinned and lifted up the lid off the dish, revealing a massive pile of ham and eggs. I smiled from ear to ear, knowing that I would savor every moment of her matronly attentions. She then excused herself, mentioning that she had some errands to run. Holmes emerged sometime later from his bedroom with a mouse-coloured dressing gown over his clothes.

"Good morning," I said pleasantly before I took another bite of ham.

"Good morning, Doctor," he said, sitting down opposite me with his back to the window (he had told me the previous night that he preferred that seat) and pouring himself some coffee. Once again, his plate remained untouched.

"Aren't you taking any breakfast?" I inquired.

"No. You are welcome to my share if you are so inclined."

"As you please. Thank you." (I should point out that this is how I put on a stone in two months time.)

Holmes lit a cigarette. "How did you sleep, Doctor? Is the room satisfactory?"

"Fine, thanks," I said, putting down my coffee cup.

"I am glad to hear that. Have you any plans today?"

"Well, no, really. Just more unpacking. Maybe catch up on some books I've been meaning to read. And perhaps crack open my new journal. And you?"

"I trust you've no objection to a few chemical experiments?"

I swallowed a forkful of eggs, "By no means."

"Excellent, Doctor. And now if you'll excuse me, I shall set to work. Oh, and I would appreciate it if you could be silent for the next half hour or so." And with that he rose and strode over to his laboratory. I poured another coffee and walked over to the still half empty boxes near the writing desk.

Some time later, I was seated in my chair by the fire, engrossed in an amusing treatise by a former Chaplain of the American Navy entitled, _Sea and the Sailor._ Suddenly there was a loud crash from behind me. Instinct took over and the next thing I knew I was crouched upon the carpet, my hand reaching instinctively for my revolver. I was back there - in the heat, the sand, and the blood. I could hear the roar of gunfire and the screams of the dying. Then a gentle hand on my arm and the sound of my name brought me back.

"Watson. Watson, can you hear me?"

I realized that it was Holmes. He was helping me back into my chair.

"My dear fellow, let me help you."

"I'm terribly sorry. I - " I was so embarrassed I couldn't even continue. Now he would surely ask me to leave and find another flat mate.

"No no. I apologize most profusely," said Holmes.

All I could do was nod. My heart was still pounding, but my breathing had returned to normal. He poured me another coffee and added some brandy to it.

"Is this an acceptable prescription?" he asked with a wryness that I didn't know he possessed.

I smiled and took the cup, "Yes. Thank you."

"You see, I failed to judge the strength of the reaction of the chemical compound and was making notes with one hand while pouring the solution in with the other. Please forgive me. Ha! Thank heaven Mrs. Hudson is out."

Just then a thought came to me. I glanced on the writing desk at the journal, still unused. Perhaps I could prove to be useful after all.

"Holmes, I think I can help," I gestured over to the writing desk, "That journal is new, and I could make the notes for you. I dare say it may be a safer method."

Holmes looked at me with a slight show of wonder. "You would do that?"

I smiled, "Of course. I would be happy to be of assistance, and delighted to observe your work. That is, if you don't mind."

"Very well then. Thank you…Watson."

We spent the rest of the afternoon at the laboratory table. The mess was quickly cleaned and that day remained blessedly free from further mishaps.

Yes, life here was going to prove interesting, and far from ordinary. I was certain of that, and grateful for it.

* * *

**Thanks as always to everyone who has read and commented. You've been a big help, and I hope you will stay with me and this story. Cheers!**


	6. Chapter 6, Part 1

*trudges up 17 steps, opens door*

Hello, My Dear Readers!

After a long hiatus, the Bull Pup is back!

*cricket noise*

Oh 'eck. Anyone out still there? So sorry to be gone so long and keep you waiting. I've recently heard from a few of you encouraging me to continue with this story.

*sits cross legged in hearth chair*

So, pray take a seat...

* * *

**~ CHAPTER 6 ~**

_**AN OBSERVER OF HUMAN NATURE**_

**Part I**

Those first few weeks in Baker Street were, to say the very least, interesting. Holmes, though vast in intellect of a scholastic sort, revealed himself to possess peculiar sociable habits. I do no mean to say that he was completely devoid of any emotional substance, only that his moods tended to vary. I supposed that this stemmed from a deeply fixed view of the world, perhaps formed early in his life. I say this because he never spoke once of family, childhood pleasantries, or Christmas holidays. No trace of hearth and home was to be found in his countenance. It was as if his life prior to 221B no longer existed, or indeed, had never existed at all. And as I did not think it my place to intrude, I did not breach the subject.

Still, our conversations were pleasant enough. He never referred to me by my Christian name, and not wanting to offend him, I never referred to him by his. It just seemed to be an unspoken agreement. We were Holmes and Watson. We were as night and day under the same roof. I was always punctual at meals, he was not. I was tidy, he was not. Yet, there was harmony.

My strength did improve, and lately my leg had felt strong enough so that I took to foregoing my cane until I earnestly needed it. Most mornings I allowed myself to sleep in, at Mrs. Hudson's insistence that I not only get proper meals but good rest.

The routine of Army life, I found, was still with me. And Holmes's irregularities did strike me odd at first. But over time I became used to the fact that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a man who lived predominantly by his own rules. There were days when he hardly spoke, ate, or slept. And while his incessant smoking could be a bit irksome, it was the revelation of his musical abilities that struck me the most profoundly.

I woke one night from another hellish nightmare, certain that I had cried out. As usual, I sat there, my nightshirt bathed in sweat, and listened for any sign that I had been heard. And as usual, I heard none.

The clock told me it was a few minutes before eleven o'clock. I knew I would not fall back asleep soon, and I thought perhaps a book might help. So, I lit a candle and rose to put on a fresh nightshirt. Then I put on my dressing gown and slippers.

I was on the landing when I first heard the music. The tune was not one I recognized. It was coming from the sitting room, and the door was open. Clad in a mouse-coloured dressing gown, standing before the fire, was Holmes.

I wouldn't describe him as a virtuoso. But as he played, his lean frame softened. He turned from the fire, and I watched as his eyes closed. He began to sway with the melody, and seemed as at peace as a child slumbering to the sound of a mother's lullaby.

_So that's where your feelings are to be found, eh, Holmes?_

When he drew his bow across the strings one last time, he stood momentarily transfixed. It was then I realized I had done the same.

"Sorry to disturb you," I said as I patted my mouth, pretending to stifle a yawn, "but I couldn't sleep. I thought a book might help."

Holmes whirled around, his eyes wide. His hands dropped to his sides in surprise.

"Watson," he said in quiet astonishment.

I entered the room and made for the writing desk. "I was wondering where the music was coming from. For a moment there I thought it was in my head, so I came down. When I saw you playing, I cannot tell you how relieved I was!" I laughed, hoping it would ease him. But Holmes did not smile, and walked to his violin case. _Was he embarrassed?_

"Oh, keep playing if you like, don't mind me," I said as I selected a book that was a favorite from my childhood, and crossed back to the sitting room door.

Holmes looked, still slightly on edge, at me and blinked three times.

"You are certain?" he asked, his frame rigid.

"Absolutely," I said as I turned back in the doorway and smiled. "Good night."

Once back up in my room, I settled back into bed and lost myself in Mr. Pickwick's first few adventures. Eventually, my eyelids grew heavy. Somewhere between sleep and awake, I could have sworn I heard the strains of 'Flow Gently, Sweet Afton' lingering up from the floor below.

* * *

O.K., so I got a little fluffy with this one. But it just couldn't be helped. As ever, the Canon and Granada dominate my inspiration, but I hope you feel welcome to envision the Holmes & Watson of your choice. And yes, I know it's a short segment, but Part 2 will be posted soon, I promise!

Thanks as always to all my readers and reviewers.


	7. Chapter 6, Part 2

Hello, Dear Readers!

As promised, not too long a wait for Part 2. This one was a real treat to write. Enjoy!

* * *

**~ Chapter 6 ~**

_**AN OBSERVER OF HUMAN NATURE**_

**Part II**

Some hours later, the smell of another scrumptious breakfast lured me out from under the warm blankets. I donned my dressing gown and slippers once again and descended the steps to the sitting room.

The curtains were parted on the three windows, and the sunlight tried its best to disguise the cold temperature outside. It reflected off the windows of the writing desk and bathed the room in a cheery comfort. To my surprise, Holmes, fully dressed, was already seated at the table, reading the early morning edition of _The Times. _His coffee cup was full, and though his plate was characteristically devoid of food, the ham and eggs under the cover of the chafing dish were singing to me.

"Ah, Watson," said Homes as he reached for his coffee cup (I later learned from Mrs. Hudson that the pattern is Mason's Mandalay Blue). "Well rested, I trust?"

"Very, thank you," I answered as I sat down and picked up the cream. Then, to my surprise, Holmes lifted the lid off the dish and began to fill my own plate, then his. He met my astonished gaze, and flashed a half-second smile. It was just a flash— momentary, but present, then gone.

This lightened mood put me in mind of something from last night's reading, and I thought it may be an apropos moment for a joke from popular literature.

"'There's nothin' so refreshin' as sleep, sir, as the servant-girl said afore she drank the egg-cupful o' laudanum,'" I said.

Holmes, who by that time had replaced the lid on the chafing dish and was well into his second forkful of eggs, gave me a puzzled look.

"Yes, I suppose that is a fair assessment. But Doctor, I had no idea that you indulged."

My fork stopped half way to my mouth.

"Me? Oh, no," I chuckled. "Sam Weller said it to Mr. Pickwick."

Holmes's brow furrowed, "I do not recall the names."

I put down my fork and added more sugar to my coffee.

"It's a quotation, Holmes."

The only response I received from my flatmate was a blank stare.

"'The Pickwick Papers'?" I said.

Still, Holmes just sat there.

"Dickens?" I added in desperation. _Honestly, where did this man grow up?_

Finally, Holmes responded. "Oh, I see. It's a novel, then. I'm afraid such books are of little to no interest to me, Watson."

My coffee cup hit the saucer hard, as I had nearly dropped it in astonishment.

"You've never read— the greatest English novelist?"

He exhaled a cloud of smoke and smirked. "That, I dare say, is debatable."

_The hell it is. _"Do you read literature at all?" I asked.

"Only what is of use to me and my work. I have read many of the works of the Immortal Bard, but little else in that fashion."

If someone won't tell you about themselves, you can gleam good information by their choice of books. So I shot up from the table and opened the cabinet on my writing desk, pulling out books and reading the author aloud.

"Lord Byron?"

"Ah yes, Byron. He is tolerable."

I put it on the windowsill, and took out a few more books.

"Shelley?"

A snort was the reply to that one.

_Right, back into the cabinet with you, Percy._

"Thomas Carlyle?"

"Never heard of him."

Then I rummaged through my desk and found a newspaper clipping of Carlyle. I held it up for Holmes to scrutinize.

"What crime did he commit?"

I slammed the paper down on the desk in utter frustration.

"He didn't, he was a writer. He died last week!"*

Holmes shrugged and held out his hands in supplication. _By God, I think he's amused by this! _But I was determined to find something this man had read besides Shakespeare. I held up another book.

"Thackeray?"

"No. What is the title?"

I took a deep breath. "'Vanity Fair.'"

My bored flatmate rolled his grey eyes. "Oh, God."

_There has to be a book in here that will interest him._

"George Eliot?"

"Never heard of him."

"Her!"

Holmes cocked his head to one side in thought, "A woman writing under man's name? How curious, though not without interest. But no, thank you."

Then my eyes locked on a book which I felt certain, above all others, might win him over. In one last attempt to conquer, I reached for it, and held it up.

"Poe."

Holmes's eyes became as wide with horror. _Ah ha! I've got him! _

"Watson, please don't tell me that the plumbing isn't working."

I fell into my desk chair, defeated.

"Edgar Allan Poe!" I shouted. "He was an American gothic author."

Holmes relaxed in his chair, "Oh, thank heaven for that."

The book landed with a thud near his plate as I retook my seat at table.

"Holmes, you've never read 'Murders in the Rue Morgue'?"

"No, Watson, I have not."

"I encourage you to do so," I answered, pouring us both more coffee. "It's in your line."

"Indeed?" said Holmes, his voice not devoid of skepticism.

"Yes. Dupin, the main character, is a detective. Mr. Poe is credited with the distinction of writing the first story of its kind."

His eyebrow cocked. "And that kind would be?"

"A detective novel," I answered.

His eyes glowed with interest. "Please go on, my dear Watson."

"I shall. And you shouldn't knock Dickens completely, either. Several of his novels highlight social crimes and ways of besting the system. 'Little Dorrit' and 'Our Mutual Friend' are prime examples."

"Hm," he answered. "And this Pickwick fellow?"

I swallowed a portion of ham. "He described himself as 'an observer of human nature'."

His brow rose and his eyes twinkled. "Observer? Indeed? Tell me more. Was he a detective?"

"No," I said, as I sliced another piece of ham, "He liked to travel and make notes on his observations of life during his adventures."

"That makes little sense," answered Holmes. "For what purpose was he observing, then?"

"To live and learn, I suppose."

Holmes snorted again. _Damn, I'm losing him._

"Well," I quickly said, "he learned from his experiences. And he helped people even when they had done him ill."

Holmes's face fell. "How melodramatic. And boring."

I looked up from my plate, "Why should it be? He used his powers ultimately for good."

"And the point, Watson?"

"Well," I said, "isn't that what you do, Holmes?" 

His face took on an air of disdain, "Not quite."

I smirked. "Yes it is."

"No it is—" he narrowed his eyes in recognition of my game. "Forgive me, Watson. But I shall have to leave florid literature to you."

Then Holmes rose gracefully from the table, and retired to his room. But his door remained open, and I could hear the click of his wardrobe as he opened it. A moment later I heard a splash of water as he began his ablutions.

"Very well, we'll call it a draw, then." I answered, and took one last bite of food. _For now…_

When I had finished, I returned to my desk and began to tidy it. Out the window, I could see that the early morning streets. They were practically bare, but I suddenly had the urge to go for a walk. So I turned in the direction of Holmes's room.

"Holmes, I need some air. Fancy a stroll later?"

"I should be delighted, Doctor," he answered, appearing in the doorway in his shirtsleeves. "No doubt the walk would do us both good."

"Precisely," I held up one of his magnifying glasses on the little table near his hearth chair. "You can observe."

"And you can walk off that ridiculously large breakfast you just inhaled." Then he flashed another smile.

I smiled back and exited the sitting room. My leg didn't seem so painful as I made my way up a bit more briskly than I had done before.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes as an odd man. But he was also a fascinating man – aloof yet caring. However strangely he may convey those sentiments, they were there, at least.

Did he hear my cries in the night and play his violin to help me, or was he simply bored? I never asked him, and he never offered an answer. But that was of no consequence. I now had a home, a doting landlady, and most importantly, a new friend. That would suffice for the moment.

* * *

*Thomas Carlyle died February 4th, 1881.

Well, things are getting interesting, eh? Much more to come. And thanks as always for reading...and reviewing! ;-)


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